


the port of the old king

by marqione



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Beating, Character Study, Childhood Memories, Death, Dream Smp, Fantasy, Gen, I just really like worldbuilding, Kidnapping, Memories, Minecraft, Minor Character Death, Noble!Dream, Prince!Dream, Realistic Minecraft, Schlatt is a Dictator, This world is my own creation based on the SMP but not quite, Tragedy, mcyt - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27266356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marqione/pseuds/marqione
Summary: Dream recollects his life before becoming a general in the SML.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 61





	the port of the old king

**Author's Note:**

> So this world is a world kinda of my own creation. It's the same charatcers and the same names but just different, more fantasy-sounding places. Dream's last name is also something of my own creation, his last name in this story is not his actual last name nor am I claiming it to be, it is just something I thought would illustrate the type of character he is better. In the world I have created for the SMP, this story is comprised of Dream's memories of his childhood. If I choose to elaborate on the series more, don't worry, Sapnap and George exist and so does every other SMP member. This is VERY "CANON" DIVERGENT. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: If at any point, any of the CC's mentioned claim that they are uncomfortable with this type of fanfiction, I will take it down as soon as possible.
> 
> If you like this work please consider dropping a comment telling me what you think, offering some critiques, or want me to continue!  
> I also draw! (Mainly MCYT) Check out my twitter @/sophcasserole :)
> 
> Enjoy!

His mother, in all her emerald-eyed glory, looked down on his shaking and crying form. He was small, _so small_ , red, moist, of course, he had just been born; a fresh new life begun that sunny summer morning. She cooed to him, he sniffled,

"Oh my little Clay, _my little dream_. . ." she whispered into his slightly stubbly head.

His bright emerald eyes— _oh they were just like his mother's_ —looked up at her, and his tears began to cease. Little Clay looked up at his mother as if she were the goddess eternal, like an explorer finally discovering the fountain of youth, like she was his world. And he was hers.

His mother cradled him closer, nuzzling her face into the warm skin of his head and lay a kiss upon it. _Her little Clay. . .her little dream._

—

When he was five, Prince Clay von Vanderbilt remembers sitting next to his older sister one stormy night. He fiddled with the toy knight in his hand as his brain tried to tune out the thunder, but to no avail, he shook whenever the light flashed through the window.

His sister, not much older than he, pulled him into her lap and began to tell him a story. She told him tales of a courageous, horse-back knight who brandished a mighty sword and hefty shield, fighting To protect the land.

"'Rahhh!' the knight cried! He picked up his sword once again and stabbed it through the monster's chest! He did it! He saved the country," She dramatized, "and all of the people celebrated when he returned. But then. . ."

_What comes next?_ thought little Clay.

"The princess walked toward the knight and offered a kiss to hi—"

"Oh, that's boring!"

"What? The knight should not receive a kiss for all his bravery?"

"No! I wanna hear more about the fight with the monster!"

His older sister sighed, "you really have no taste for romance, do you, Clay?"

And Clay, with those emerald-green eyes of his, stared her down with a smile, "Nope!"

—

When he was seven, he remembers hearing his mother scream. A lot. Not all the time, just on one day in particular. He also remembers seeing his father and the family doctor rush to her aid when she suddenly collapsed at the dinner table, clutching her swollen belly. _He had told her that she should be mindful when eating those tarts earlier!_

Clay stood up rapidly in a panic but his sister grabbed his arm and forced him back down into his seat.

"Why are you forcing me to stay?! Mother has a bad tummy ache and we should go help her feel better!" he cried.

His sister looked at him jadedly, "it's not a stomach ache silly, that's our little sibling!"

"Our sibling," Clay rubbed his chin, pondering the thought, "I didn't think tarts made a person. . ."

"Clay von Vanderbilt!"

"What?"

". . .ugh nevermind, just stay put," his sister patted his sandy-blonde head and rushed toward their parents' quarters.

Clay, of course, wouldn't stay put, as his childish impatience grew the best of him. He stood up in a flurry and rushed down the corridor. The door was slightly ajar letting all the pained sounds of his mother's efforts leak into the hallway and straight into his ears. He thought it best not to go in the room.

A few hours had past now, he knelt by the door, his mother's screaming turned into the wailing of something else. A unfamiliar sound, an unfamiliar voice, not his mother's, surely.

Clay peeked through the crack once more to find his mother holding something in her arms. A baby. _His sibling_.

Without a care in the world, little Clay rushed to his mother's bedside to get a better look at his new playmate. It was quite ugly honestly; very shrill and very tiny.

"Mother, what's that," he knew what it was but he still wanted a clear answer from his mother herself.

"Your younger sister, Clay."

_His younger sister._

—

When he was nine he remembers his father calling him to come to the study. He fiddled with his fingers, and every step he took felt like he was being chained down, each link heavier than the last. His father never called him to his office for reasons other than his being cross with Clay.

So naturally, the boy was quite jittery.

He begrudgingly opened the large oak door to his father's study, careful to make himself as unnoticeable as possible, even though his attempts were fruitless now. His father looked up from his paperwork and lay his pen beside it.

Taking a deep sigh his father looked him dead in the eyes, "Son," his voice clean and crisp, "you know that you are the next crown prince of this colony, yes?"

Clay nodded his head, unable to keep eye contact without his nerves getting the better of him.

"I think now is an ample time to begin to train you in leadership. You will be taking an array of extracurriculars in addition to your studies."

Clay looked up, "will I still get to go to school with my sisters?"

"Yes, but. . .your schooling will be a bit different from theirs."

Clay did not know how to respond.

His father continued, "leadership, politics, strategy, and combat classes are among some of the education you will receive. You will learn what it means to be a Vanderbilt prince."

His emerald-green eyes looked up to his father in wonder, but not without a twinge of anxiety, before looking back down and nodding his head once more.

Now he did not know this at the time, but as he left his father's office, he could feel the last remnants of childhood innocence slipping away into the shadows that long, cold corridor.

—

When he was twelve, he remembers his younger sister tugging harshly at his now wavy, sandy-locks. Not that he minded, however, he loved spending time with her. Through his rigorous training regimen and seemingly never-ending course load, Clay was often grateful for small moments like these where he could be with her.

His mother—she sat near the window of the salon, embroidering who knows what—looked fondly upon them. She set down her needle,

"Clay, I hear from the townspeople that the stars are going to be out tonight. Perhaps you should take your sister to see them."

"Stars! Clay, can we pleaaaaaase," she begged.

Clay knew he had mountains of paperwork to do, but quite honestly, he reasoned, he could not care less. Future Clay would hate him for it but that's not his problem. He chuckled into a sigh, "fine."

"Yay—"

"But only if you help me clean up all of these toys."

"Aw, fine."

The sun had well past set by now, he observed, and he turned to his sister.

"Are you ready to go," he questioned, propping the door open with his foot. His sister grabbed his hand as they walked toward his room. Once they opened the door, Clay walked toward his window, propping it open with one of his textbooks. Next, he hoisted his sister out his window and onto the small bit of flat roofing below it. Climbing through the window himself, Clay and his sister laid on their backs taking in the sights of the midnight sky.

His sister laughed excitedly, "Big brother, look at all the stars! They're so pretty," she pointed, "look, you can see the contellashuns!"

" _—Constellations_."

"Constellations!"

He smiled softly and ruffled his sister's tiny head. Then, he looked back toward the sky and all his worries began to slip away.

—

When he was fourteen, Prince Clay von Vanderbilt remembers sweating. The training just never stopped, it kept going and going and going and going. . . and it never ceased. His father wasn't lying, his training only kept harder as the years went by. Nowadays, he rarely ever found time for himself, and those little moments he spent not re-opening blisters and memorizing the latest political map were spent with his family.

Clay loved his family, he couldn’t imagine a life without them. But he wouldn’t have to imagine much longer.

Clay remembers sitting at the table enjoying a nice warm plate of steak and potatoes; His siblings chattering amongst themselves about the newest dresses out on the market and his parents discussing politics.

He wishes he paid more attention to what they were saying that night.

His father taps his crystalline glass with a fork, grabbing the eyes of everyone seated there.

“As a family,” he states, “I think we should have a discussion about the masquerade ball upcoming next week.”

Clay and his siblings exchanged gleeful glances, their mother smiling to herself. He was excited to don that white, smiley mask.

“Father! I wish to help decorate,” exclaimed Clay’s younger sister.

His older sister chimed in, “me as well!”

Their father smiled, “In true Vanderbilt fashion, I expect your decorating to be nothing short of splendid,” and his siblings cheered.

“Now, Clay,” his father added, “You will be—“

“My liege!” A guard burst through the ornate oak doors, “Schlattdian forces hav—“

A sword. Through his neck. It was so sudden but, Clay could not, for the life of him, process it.

His father flew to his feet but was stopped as multiple soldiers flooded the room. His siblings screamed, his mother attempting to keep herself from shattering with only the help of her handkerchief.

More soldiers poured into the dining room, brandishing their freshly-sharpened blades and surrounding the family.

They began slashing.

His mother wailed and his siblings screamed in horror as they watched their father choke in a sea of his own blood. Clay’s hands shook and his knuckles turned white.

The soldiers then turned to his mother and sisters, and struck them down as quickly as they had his father.

His mother screamed with her last fleeting breaths, “run. RUN PLEASE CLAY! MY LITTLE DREAM, RUN!”

And his mother, In all of her emerald-eyed glory, fell to eternal slumber in front of him.

Clay just stared. The carpet was so red. He pitied the servants.

The soldiers then turned to him, their blades dripping with the blood of his kin. One in particular spoke up, a smirk contorting his bloodied features,

“Clay? Ah! You must be the crown prince! Your mother’s little dream. . . _How precious_.”

Clay clenched his fists, swallowed, and somehow mustered enough willpower to nod his head.

“Grab him.”

_Clay von Vanderbilt refuses to remember much after that._

—

Clay remembers waking up in his room, albeit, chains around his wrists and shackling the door. A prison cell wearing the thin veil of his childhood room.

His eyes were sunken in and his mouth felt drier than a desert. His licked his cracked lips and blinked a few times to recenter himself.

He sat up, bones creaking, muscles aching, a weird panging in his stomach. And just when Clay thought he could be alone with his thoughts, two soldiers forcefully tore open the door, and the head soldier from before sauntered in, almost as if he hadn’t slaughtered an entire family hours(? Days? Weeks?) prior. Of course, he wouldn’t have known; his boots gleamed with fresh polish, and his armor shone like the sun at high noon. Those same leather boots tore into Clay’s line of sight.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

Clay did not comply.

“Look at me!”

He grabbed Clay’s jaw and forced him to look. The man’s eyes were black. Black and dead. He chuckled darkly.

“Were only keeping you alive because you’re a noble heir. You’re _very valuable_ on the slave market I’d imagine,” Clay said nothing, but the fear raked through his body all the same.

“Of course, once we get the market up in this pitiful little colony of yours, the market will be booming! My country will become so rich because of you,” He laughed, bearing his canines, “one year,” he bore his eyes into Clay’s once more, “one year, and we’ll sell you for such a pretty penny.”

One of the soldier standing guard at the door dropped a partially-moldy piece of bread and a bowl of water in front of Clay’s knees.

“Eat.”

The soldiers left, and Clay most definitely did not eat.

—

Sleeping was about the only thing Clay did nowadays. He was continuously tired from all the beatings he received. The more he refrained from eating, the worse it would get. But every time he so much as smelled the food his stomach lurched, the memories of that night plagued his mind and his stomach.

Of course the soldiers dare not beat his face, no, that was the money-maker. Instead they took to punching him, kicking him, stepping on him, cutting him, branding him. . .the list goes on but not that Clay would remember. There, however, was one soldier who showed him mercy, or, as much mercy as he could spare.

The soldier who guarded his door always looked at him sullenly, and when he was beat, looked like he was holding something back. Clay couldn’t place it but on many an occasion, this officer tried to feed him. He was grateful that someone cared, at least.

So there he sat, shackled like a rabid animal. The events of that fateful night replaying in his head like a broken record. It was nighttime, the perfect moment for debating reality.

Clay’s eyes used to shine an emerald-green, now they took on a darker, evergreen hue. It made sense, he thought, there was no reason for the light to touch him anymore.

Sometimes, however, being left to think was the worst possible outcome, it never really lead down a positive path. Clay wished he could stop thinking.

Luckily, his wishes were granted when he heard the sound of leather boots rapidly scraping against the floor of the corridor. He braced himself for another beating but. . . When the door flew open, the soldier’s face told a different tale.

It was the merciful soldier, Clay recollected, and In his right hand, he carried a bag with what looked like food, clothes, and his father’s diamond sword. In his left, the white-smiley mask.

The soldier rushed to his side and whipped out a series of keys, “Prince Clay, I need to get you out of here immediately,” he blabbered nervously.

Fiddling with the keys, he began to unlock the shackles around his wrists,

“Here I’ve got you some essentials, I trust that you know how to use a sword,” Clay’s eyes widened, he was being _liberated_.

“Go down the corridor and exit through the third balcony on the right. There you will find a horse waiting for you at the bottom of the wall,” the shackles came undone.

Clay rubbed his battered wrists in disbelief, “You know you’re going to be killed for this. . .? Why?”

“I’m doing this for selfish reasons, I suppose, but Prime Minister Schlatt has plunged our country into dictatorship,” the guard shoved the mask into his hands, nearly missing due to how much his hands shook.

“You’re the only hope Schlattdia has left.”

Clay stood on shaky legs, and nodded in appreciation.

“Go,” the soldier commanded and Clay hoisted the bag over his shoulders, slipping the mask on, and running like his life depended on it.

Cause it did.

The balcony was in view; Clay stumbled over the edge, hesitating for a moment, then jumping. Spotting the horse, Clay scrambled to his feet, mounted the creature, and snapped the reins.

He was leaving. He was going to save Schlattdia. _He was going to get revenge_.

As he rode under the blanket of the inky black sky, he heard the yelling of the Prime Minister and the bloodcurdling scream of the soldier who aided him.

And so, with invigorated passion and pure, unbridled rage, Clay rode with reckless abandon, the sword on his back and ever-present reminder of his mission.

—

It was morning by now, the sun peeked over the line of the horizon and shone through the trunks of the trees.

Clay was still riding, but he slowed to a walk, finding a nearby river to give the poor animal a break. He watched as it slurped up the water, and he immediately felt bad for pushing it so hard. He felt bad about a lot of things, actually.

For letting his family die, for letting the soldier die, all because of him.

A choked sob raked through his exhausted body as he leaned against the tree and sunk to his knees. He bit his lip to stifle his wails, but it was no use.

For the following hour, Clay von Vanderbilt screamed and sobbed into the echoing void of the forest.

His head was in his hands when his horse nudged him. Clay snuffed away the snot and looked up, “yeah, I know. I’m pretty sad aren’t I?”

He chuckled, but his laugh held no mirth.

Clay sniffled and grabbed the reins of the bridle, navigating the forest with his horse by his side. Eventually, his stomach grumbled, and inside of the satchel he found an apple. How grateful he was for that soldier.

It felt like hours before he saw a clearing, but there it was, almost taunting him. It felt like the light at the end of a dark, dark tunnel, and it was so close. And once the sun shone in his eyes again, Clay sighed.

He was free. But not quite, he reigned himself back in.

Clay shook his head, now was not the time to relish in his newfound liberation. Now was the time to get out of this godforsaken colony as fast as possible.

Clay kept walking down the beaten path before coming across an expansive wheat farm. Perhaps, he thought, he could find lodging for the night there. He had only hoped the person living there could be as merciful as the officer; he was willing to test his luck.

Tying the reins around a stray wooden post, Clay walked up to the door of the tiny oak farmhouse and knocked, pulling the mask over his face. A middle-aged man opened the door. He had frown lines and permanent creases between his brows; his hair was as grey as a cloudy morning and his unshaven features stood out among his tanned, slightly sunburnt skin.

He immediately tried to shut the door, but Clay was able to grasp it just before it shut.

“Wait! Please listen,” Clay pleaded, “I need somewhere to stay.”

The farmer gave him a quizzical look.

“Just for one night I promise!” Clay looked up slowly, his masked gaze meeting the sharp one of the farmer.

“No.”

“Please! I’ll pay you back! I’ll work for you!”

Clay fudged open the door a bit more, “sir, please.”

The man sighed, adjusting his ratty, faded overalls, “you’re lucky it’s harvest season and I’ve been needin’ a hand lately, kid.”

Clay internally cheered, “thank you so much, sir.”

“What’s your name kid?”

Clay pondered a moment.

“Dream.”

—

Shit.

Clay von Vande— _Dream_ had never harvested crops before. The struggles of being a noble, he supposes. It’s been a week by now but he still finds himself at a loss when looking out upon the miles of unharvested crops. The farmer watched him struggle trying to tie the twine around the bundles of freshly-harvested wheat.

“You’re not from around these parts, are you?”

Clay wiped the sweat from under his mask—the damn thing made it so much harder to work—, “huh?”

“You don’t know how to do basic household chores, and your hands are as un-calloused as a newborn baby’s. . .”

“. . .not to mention your name and that weird mask of yours. I would almost assume you’re tryin’ to run away from something.”

Dream’s gaze fell back down to the bundles and attempted to tie them once again before failing miserably, the twine slipping through his bandaged fingers. A thick silence filled the air.

“My parents just liked the name,” he fumbled out.

“Oh, come on now, you expect me to believe your parents seriously named you ‘Dream’? Still don’t answer my question ‘bout the mask either.”

Dream swallowed thickly, hoping the farmer couldn’t hear him. His heartbeat quickened; He could probably cut the tension with his sword.

The silence was so pregnant it was unbearable.

“. . .You know...palace guards came to the farmhouse the other day.”

Dream froze.

“Asked for a ‘Prince Clay’. Weird, ain’t it?”

Dream’s mouth went dry. The farmer _knew_.

The farmer huffed, “Look, I won’t tell anyone, but I don’t want you bringin’ trouble to my farm—“

“I need to leave the colony. As soon as possible”

“If helpin’ you leave the colony will keep me in business, then so be it. Let’s go back inside.”

Dream followed the man back into the old farmhouse. In the back of the farmhouse there sat a tiny table, which was covered in stray papers, ink, and a long-since burned candle. The man dug through the chaos to suddenly reach back out with a map. He clung the map to the wall and beckoned Dream over.

The map wasn’t the colony he knew, no, it was of another one, much bigger than his own. The Survivian-Multiplyic League, where his mother hailed from. Of course, how could he forget. The massive continent was about a two-week boat ride from his colony. It was still very young, not too much infrastructure to speak of, but in recent years, from what he remembers of his vacations to meet his distant family, it began to bloom. Dream relished in this newfound opportunity. The farmer pointed to a tiny peninsula toward the southern part of the map.

“This is where you’re gonna want to go. The Port of the Old King.”

Dream paused a moment, _he remembered that port_.

The farmer continued, “I’ll give you some spare change for a ticket. It’s quite a large port so you’ll be able to hide easily. I know a few transporters there so just tell them Phil sent you and they’ll let you on.”

“Phil? Is that your name?”

“Yea, what of it, kid?”

“Nothing,” Dream smiled to himself. For once, he was grateful for the mask.

—

Dream awoke bright and early, before the sun could grace the plains. Today was the day. The day he finally left. He was conflicted. This was his home, he chided himself. Well, not anymore; not since Schlatt took over.

Phil watched Dream pack up his things, the same annoyed crease between his brows, and a candle the only think illuminating his face. Dream hoisted his satchel, sheathed his sword, and followed Phil out the front door. Grabbing the reins of his steed, Dream turned to Phil.

“Thank you, truly. For everything.”

“Nothin’ of it kid, I got some good work outta you. Even if you were unbearably slow.”

Dream chuckled, “yea, sorry about that.”

“You remember the way to the port, right? You have the money I gave you?”

“Yes.”

“Dandy. Now get outta here,” he could hear the smirk in Phil’s words.

Dream mounted his horse and set out at a slow walk, taking in the last sights of the land he used to call home. He was grateful for so many things; the people he met, the opportunities he was given, but now it was time to move on. Now it was time to begin his mission. He was going to take back this land one day.

Suddenly he hear a hollering and stopped a moment, “Hey, kid! I expect you to pay me back! Don’t you go forgettin’ ‘bout me now!”

“Clay!”

“What?”

“My name is Clay!”

The farmer chuckled to himself and whispered: “Of course it is. . .”

As he retreated back inside his tiny, old farmhouse, somehow, someway, he knew that wasn’t the last time he’d see the kid. And for once, he smiled.

—

It was about a 2 hour ride to the port. There Dream sat atop his mount, in all his emerald-eyed boredom. He ran a hand through his hair and fiddled with his blossoming callouses, a memory of the time he spent with the jaded yet, strangely kind farmer. Chuckling to himself, he rode on, the faint shadow of boats lining the horizon.

He was so close.

Once he arrived, Dream stopped to take in the sights of the port. He had only previously rode through it on a gold-pleated carriage. *How pretentious*, he mocked. It was decently busy for a weekday morning, people hauling loads off ships, purchasing things from nearby stores, generally going about their lives, undisturbed by his presence at all. It had never occurred to Dream how many people there were in his colony. He had been very isolated up in his ivory tower as a child, but now since he lived among them, Dream grew into a new appreciation for the littler things in life.

He walked up to the ticket booth, fumbling with the coins from his pocket. The booth master stared uncomfortably, giving him an odd look. _Probably the mask_.

“Where you headed?”

“SML.”

“Dock 9. Launches in 1 hour. Have a safe journey.” Dream nodded and headed towards the designated dock.

Stepping on the wooden panels of the launch dock, Dream could feel the metaphorical chains around his ankles begin to lighten. Boarding the actual ship, Dream settled in the bow, his hands grasping the splintery oak. He stood there for a while, entertaining his thoughts. He was leaving his family, his land, his home, everything he ever knew was being left behind. Not that he could change that, but what he did have control over was what he was going to do next. It was go-time.

The ship jolted as the anchor was hoisted out of the murky water, and the wind caught the sails. He took off his mask.

The gust tousled Dream’s hair as the port slowly faded in the distance. He whispered a soft goodbye as he turned around and settled to the inside of the ship.

—

Dream awoke with a jolt, his head nearly colliding with the oak above him. The planks that made up his bed were unkind to his back and about every bone in his body cracked as he moved.

There was commotion aboard the ship this morning. Dream slid off his cot, donned his mask, and walked out of the barracks to the deck. In the distance, the Port of the Old King was just within sight. Dream rushed to the bow of the ship, pushing through the crowds of other passengers, and dangled over the edge to get a better look.

He was _there!_ He _made_ _it!_

He laughed giddily. His eyes shone once more.

Soon, the port was in full view, the bustle of people was ten times that of the port he came from. As soon as the ship docked, Dream weaseled through the crowds of people once more and just about sprinted off that ship, gripping his satchel with all the excitement of a child on Christmas morning.

Once he entered the bustling port city, he took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh mien of freedom. There was a certain skip in his step as he made his way down the Main Street.

His sword hung securely on his back and bounced with every step he took. Every step, he thought, was a step toward his goals. Determination flooded his veins.

He would get revenge. He would take back his land, and bring an end to the Schlattdian dictatorship. He would revive the House of Vanderbilt.

Yes, Clay von Vanderbilt remembered the day his mission began.

He was 14, navigating the Port of the Old King, and in all his emerald-eyed glory, jogged down the road with an earth of new life beneath his shoes.

—


End file.
